


Amateur Theatricals

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 06:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: When a clever and devious Playmaster visits the village to stage an amateur theatrical performance, he gets more than he bargains for, especially since some around Brandonshire have seen more than a few expert cons in their day, and not all the actors around here are amateurs.  And if it all leads to a Playlist that includes: one innocent heroine vindicated, one unscheduled tragic performance, one villain thwarted, one romantic if unlikely reunion that has Casino shaking his head, all culminating with a rather sly play on words, well, all the better.





	Amateur Theatricals

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know Doby frequently appears, and I never give him credit in the list of characters. I just refuse to give the nasty little git the encouragement!

He was a Playmaster. That was what he did, that was what he called himself. He loved amateur theatricals, loved bringing his plays to the small villages and towns, getting the people involved, letting them discover their hitherto unknown talents, seeing their excitement. He loved the selecting of just the right play, just the right cast, directing them in a perfect performance. For those he'd use a play that was already in existence, Shakespeare, Sheridan, Moliere, any of the assorted fairy tales, sometimes even one of the traditional Pantomimes, occasionally the Greeks or others of that sort. 

But what he really loved, his passion so to speak, was to write his own play, select the perfect cast, introduce the scenario to them and finally directing them in a one-time performance never to be repeated. He didn't allow himself that indulgence very often, just sometimes, when the mood hit, when inspiration flowed forth, when he found just the right players, then the Playmaster brought out a new journal and outlined the play, the cast of characters, and spread his wings, metaphorically speaking, of course. 

It was a pity, of course, that the 'legitimate theatre', or what passed for that these days, had no appreciation for his work. He'd presented his plays to the angels before, thinking to get backing, but they failed to see the genius. "Derivative", they scoffed. "Simply a rehash of what's been done before," they mocked. "Shakespeare said it better, don't you know?" they scolded. They had little appreciation for his own version of the Commedia Dell'Arte, where the casting and scenario are in place but the actors fill in the lines, considered that old-hat, too unpredictable for modern audiences; of course, in his version, he spent a great deal of effort making sure those lines were close to what he had envisioned, and almost always, it was a spectacular success. 

For each production of that sort he kept a journal, detailing the process start to finish, the cast, the scenario, the outcome, including the newspaper clippings if there were any, and surprisingly often there were. He tended toward the dramatic, some might even say tragic in his productions, and they did catch the attention of the press on occasion. Even if that didn't happen, he detailed the final scene, the reaction of those looking on, those who later heard of it. Those little journals he kept locked in a small trunk that traveled with him; they were his life's work, after all, an even dozen by now. Of course, it was a pity the audiences were, by the nature of the beast, rather small. Still, as long as amateur theatricals were still in vogue, and they had been for a great many years, he was able to allow his genius to shine forth. 

And now, after he had walked the streets of this village, visited the shops, attended church services, and now sat in the small pub in Brandonshire, listening to the talk around him, watched the people, he felt inspiration start to swell within him, and he knew that this small village would be the next audience for his OWN masterpiece along with the other, more common, he would stage here. And he already knew who would be his primary 'stage hand'. As the crowd shifted at The Doves, he made his way over to the dour, perpetually aggrieved looking man at the bar, "My name is Cedric Bellingham. May I buy you a drink?" and smiled as the narrow suspicious eyes lit up. "Name's Doby, it is, and yes, yes, you may!"

"No, Private, you may not take off every evening for rehearsals! There 'appens to be a war on, and you just 'appen to be a part of it. Yes, I know playing a publican in Mr. Bellingham's new production is a wonderful opportunity for you, but you'll 'ave to further your acting career in your off 'ours!" Gil Rawlins stood staring after the dejected soldier as he walked away, shoulders slumped. The Sergeant Major shook his head, "don't know what the world is coming to, sometimes."

"Problems, Gil?" and he turned to the amused blond man standing behind him.

"Foolishness is more the word, Lieutenant. Some traveling Playmaster, at least that's what 'e calls 'imself, a Mr. Bellingham, got the village all excited about putting on their own play. Got them all busy with auditions, and building sets, and making costumes, and once 'e decides who plays what, then learning their lines, and rehearsing and such. Well, if it amuses them, that's alright, I suppose, though it seems a bit foolish to me. But when 'e tells one of my men that 'e would be just perfect for the part of the 'publican', and what the 'ell a publican is neither me OR my man 'ave any idea, then I get pestered to put the war on 'old so 'e can go to bloody try-outs and then rehearsals!"

Garrison laughed, "I'm surprised my crew haven't gotten their fingers into this, especially Actor!" 

Later, in the Common Room, when he brought up the question, though, he was met with amusement and, from Actor, outright disdain.

"Really, Craig, do you think I would lower myself to perform in such a venue?"

"Yeah, that's right, Beautiful can't be a part of something like that; word might get around, ruin his reputation, ya know!" came in a rough laugh from Casino.

"Aint tried any of us yet, but 'e's been pestering Meghada. Doubt that'll work out well, never does. Told me she plays enough bloody parts as it is; told 'IM she 'as too much else on 'er plate. She's being polite, so far, but you know 'ow long that's likely to last if 'e keeps at 'er." They all laughed at the thought.

"Well, that true enough. Wish I'd been there when that private asked Gil about getting off duty every evening for rehearsals; his face must have been something wonderful! Can you see Richards' face if we told him 'can't handle that mission; I have rehearsals that week, and then there's the three nights of the play, and then the cast party. Couldn't possibly be available for your little production til, oh, maybe six weeks out!" Garrison laughed and shook his head, imagining the staid British officer's likely response. But, unbeknownst to them, some of them had already been cast into their roles, along with the young woman from the O'Donnell Cottage, and the Playmaster was starting to set the stage.

Even after Bellingham had gracefully accepted Meghada's refusal, he still paid a great deal of attention to her. Of all the gossip and innuendo he'd received from Doby, that concerning the young redhead and the men in the big house, the one they called the Mansion, was the most intriguing, had the most potential.

{"Brilliant opportunity, classical themes. A wartime setting when people who might not ordinarily meet come together, greed, avarice, a forbidden romance, a seemingly harmless yet sly villain, a haughty and too-proud yet gullible female, love betrayed, rage and fury of a woman scorned, tragedy ensues. Oh, yes. This could just be my best ever!"}

He'd gotten some very valuable information from that young soldier from the big house where that team was staying, the one he'd tempted by dangling the role of publican under his nose, information that would help this along quite nicely. And the young woman at the small postal services office at the back of the grocery had been helpful as well; he'd had to be most careful winkling the needed information out of her, and had to rather rush once that older man had come in to take over the counter, but had been quite pleased with the results, and the letters he'd filtched out when her back was turned, well, they would be most helpful. He was rather talented with the pen, after all, could copy almost anyone's writing. And Doby's promise to let him know of anything going in or out under the names of those two, well, that would be most helpful. Doby seemed quite conversant with the sort of thing a Playmaster needed in a stage-hand; the Playmaster got the impression that ratty individual had done a little amateur work in that line himself once or twice. 

Of course, there were other possibilities, and although he had always before dealt only with ONE special performance, here he was tempted to expand his repertoire to include perhaps one or two side dramas or comedies. He'd not done that before, but he felt he was well up to the challenge. Yes, perhaps it was time to let his genius grow even farther.

So he dabbled here, pushed a little there, slid a word into the right ear at the pub, dropped a hint at the local housegoods store, in addition, of course, to the tiny snippets slipped to those who were playing some part in the upcoming production of 'Cinderella'. Yes, that was hardly what he would have chosen, but he'd learned to keep the public performance rather simple when he was running one of his own productions, and it would be especially important if he branched out with the little 'extras'. 

Garrison and the men at the Mansion had a lot more on their minds than a small village theatrical endeavor, however, and were off to London, then to France, so they missed much of the building excitement. It seemed that was all that was talked about, in the shops, in the pub, over afternoon tea - the play, who was playing what, who was put out because they didn't get a part, or at least the part they wanted to play, what the costumes would be like, and much more.

Luckily for her patience, Meghada had also been called out of town for part of the time. Luckily for her patience, but perhaps if she'd been at home, she would have discovered quicker that there was trouble stirring. She'd returned, taken time to get her house and garden and her self in order, and then ventured into the village, unsuspecting, to be brought up sharp at the odd feel of the place. {"Something's off; too many sideways glances, too many downcast eyes. Doby is looking far too self-satisfied; that is never a good thing."} 

She tried not to get involved in the day-to-day gossip every small village seems to offer as part of its regular diet, but she also had very good instincts, and those instincts were telling her there was something very wrong in Brandonshire. So she made the rounds of her reliable sources: Mrs Wilson, the old washer woman; Alice Miller, wife of the local constable; Sheila Riley, wife of the village doctor and a longstanding member of the Clan Friends and Family. She'd known Sheila Riley all her life, Mrs. Wilson and Alice Miller since she'd first arrived in the village, several years ago.

One long afternoon of drinking tea, first with one, then another, and finally with the last, and she was finding herself on a mission; oh, it was a mission quite unlike the others she'd been on, but her skills there would prove handy now; and she knew where she could turn for help.

{"Oh, and I need to have another little 'talk' with Doby before this is over."}. She thought of the days when a gossip and trouble-maker would find themselves spending time in the village stocks, and wondered if Brandonshire had a set tucked away in a barn somewhere, or just who she could commission to build such. The need did seem to be increasing. The thought that once such gossips would have their tongues cut out did cross her mind, but she liked to pretend she was somewhat civilized, so she didn't dwell on that too much. Much . . . 

{"Lovely, it's working and it is looking beautiful as it comes together! The side chapter, and yes, I'm glad I decided on only the one, at least til I get used to having this many moving parts, the side chapter is well under way. I saw the woman stiffen and turn pale when she was approached this afternoon, and heard the men snickering as she walked past. At services, there was as much whispering in the pews as there was sermon from the pulpit. The Reverend just looked confused at the inattention, but his sister, she sat there like a statue, alternating being red in the face and being dead white. Such fun! And at the Pub? That table that started, well, no I started it with just a sentence or two, but the others continued, all on the theme of some things up for bid next time the Church needed to raise money for a new roof, what they'd be willing to pay for each, and it was going really well, til the bartender put a stop to it. Well, it's started, and it'll continue. Wonder how I should make it end? Hmmmm."}

Now she was on watch, both for new machinations and for the threads of the one she already knew to be in motion. And that one, well, it made her furious. She would have been, regardless, but the similarity to what she had faced added an especially nasty taste to this game. While SHE had been quite capable of dealing with that sort of thing, and had done so most firmly, this new victim, well, not so much. The question was, what to do about it, how to undo the damage already done. From the looks of it, and from what she'd heard, the damage was substantial. 

A stern delegation of ladies arrived at the Vicarage in time for a hurriedly pulled together afternoon tea. If anyone noted their arrival, they could only have reported that the looks on the women's faces were grim and disapproving, which should please any malicious eyes. The impression was that Miss Standish and perhaps the Reverend Standish were about to get a severe dressing down from three senior women of the town.

Those eyes were not privy to the change once the door was opened and they were admitted. (Meghada came in through the woods, in through the kitchen door, as no one would ever believe her to be part of such a visit.)

"And Daniel is happy here, and I was too; he'd be willing to relocate, for me, but the Church isn't inclined to move ministers around at anyone's whim but their own. And the gossip would follow us; you know it does. And, would they even allow me to stay with him, considering . . .. I cannot jeopardize his work! And what of my work with the Orphanage??" and the anguished look on Rebecka's face made the other four women want to commit mayhem.

"Let's see if we can't avoid any of that, if possible, Rebecka. Yes, Daniel is happy here, and the villagers truly like him. You have your friends here, too, you know," only to see the bleakness in the dark blue eyes.

"Did, perhaps," only to have four warm hands reach out to cover hers.

"DO, my dear, you DO. Now, here's what we do first. You need a champion, maybe several, and that will be attended to. But first, we need to get you out of the line of fire. The spare room at the Riley's, I believe; you will be under the care of Dr Riley for, oh, what would be best?"

Sheila Riley calmly smiled and said, "I believe the old term would be 'shattered nerves'; that should let the instigators of this think they've done considerable damage, may confuse some, may make a few others feel a bit guilty about spreading all this malice. What do you like to read, dear? Or would you prefer handwork? Look on this, as best you can, as a small retreat, a quiet vacation, if you will. And I intend to put a few pounds on you, as well; I think all of this has caused you to lose more than was best. You must think of a few dishes you most especially relish."

And so Rebecka Standish was gathered in to friendly arms, to be held in safety til the danger was past.

It took some doing, some tracing back, some heavy leaning on certain individuals, but eventually the trail led back to its source. The problem was, that source made no sense whatsoever. Rebecka had confirmed she'd never met or heard of the man before he arrived in town; indeed, had spoken with him only once or twice since. Why he would have singled her out for this persecution, she had no idea, nor did any of the others. Still, that's where the trail led, and Meghada was very, very good at following trails. She was also very good at a few other things, as the villagers were about to find out. 

Sergeant Rawlins was the first champion in line, bless him. A word in his ear and there was no doubt. He'd met Miss Standish, liked and respected her; admired her work at the Orphanage, admired a bit more than that, though never allowed himself to be so bold as to show that, her being above what he considered his standing. So when one of the men at the Pub started their jokes, one of locals, he braced him and dressed him down in a form showing his considerable experience in dressing down subordinates. That shut the talk for the evening, as the non-com settled himself down at a corner table, giving an occasional glower at the offender, who was trying to make himself half his size as to escape attention.

Next, Dr. Riley had a few sharp words to say to another of the gossipers, a man with a few secrets he'd not like shared about; while Riley would not generally talk about his patients, well, the man didn't necessarily know that, and wasn't about to test the point, and from that moment on, declined to take part in any such gossip.

Ben Miller tried to stay out of it, though he'd have been happy to take a stand; he'd always felt malicious gossip to be one of the downfalls in any community, and had explained that quite clearly to Doby and a few others in his time. But in his role as constable, he would be needed later, so all he did for now was issue a few stern reprimands about idle gossip.

The Reverend Standish also had to stay out of it; nothing he was likely to say or do would help matters, and although it was a bitter pill to swallow, he abided by his instructions to act like he was totally oblivious to the gossip; that would last, of course, only until someone got so bold as to address him directly, but so far no one had. 

Old Howie stepped up next, and it hadn't taken more than a word or two from Meghada to make him willing and eager to do so, and what might have been surprising to many, he had as much if not more impact on public opinion than the others.

"Never heard so much twaddle in my life," he snorted from his position at the bar, and his position leaning over the manure fork, and his position while stacking wood, and while shifting furniture, and delivering groceries, and at all the other odd jobs he took on as the village odd-job man. When you thought about it, Old Howie probably was in contact with more people on a weekly basis than almost anyone else in the village. "Fine lady like that, never a harsh word except for those who well deserve it," thinking of Doby, "ever so caring with the tikes. I see most everything goes on round this village, you know. All that creeping around, sneaking in and out; think I'd overlook goings on like that??! Could tell you stories you'd never believe, I could, about the goings on around here, past and present, and I tell you, it's all nonsense, what they're saying, and the lot of them should be horsewhipped for laying their wicked tongues against her good name that way!" He was fair sputtering by the time he finished each little spiel, and while his listeners took a few steps back to avoid the inevitable spraying, still they listened. For it was true; Howie saw everything, and had almost always made a point of keeping his own council, and there were more than a few highly grateful that he did so, and for him to step up like that, well, it meant something. 

It was starting to have an effect. Next, since the team was back from their Mission, Casino got into the act down at the Pub. The talk had gotten started over at the big table toward the center of the room, and the laughs starting to spread. He spoke up, loudly and derisively, from the bar where he was getting another pitcher of beer for the team at their own table in the corner.

"Don't know what's up with you guys, but I'd check to see what Lou is putting in your beer if you believe THAT!" He hmmphhed in derision. "Believe me, I can tell the difference between a dame that WILL and a dame that WON'T," and the laughs from his team members and many of those in the pub told the truth of that statement, "and THAT DAME? She'd need a ring on her finger, words said in front of a preacher, the whole shebang for ANY guy before he'd get anything at all, and the rest of what yer spouting off??! Hell, might as well say the O'Donnell girl is handing it out left and right, and all that other shit; be about as true!" Well, that statement stopped just about all of the few left who were still telling tales. 

The Playmaster sat quietly, listening as his plan, his lovely little side play unraveled. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he was most unhappy. "It was all going so well, too," he muttered to himself, unable to keep the pout from his full lips. He'd heard about the O'Donnell girl; well, that was partly why he'd chosen her to be a lead in his primary production, not 'Cinderella', of course, but the other one, the melodrama, the tragedy.

One lone man spoke up, perhaps having had one drink too many, perhaps just being more stupid than should be allowed, "And who's to say she DOESN'T, the O'Donnell girl? Seems you guys make yourself pretty free up at that Cottage of hers," to the dropped jaw amazement of the entire room. 

The team looked at each other, trying to decide who would answer that, since Goniff wasn't there. The Englishman was still on the firing range, having made the mistake of taking exception to the Sergeant Major's criticism, arguing loudly but with a decided pout, that he could SO hit the broad side of a barn if he really wanted to, the Sergeant Major giving in, agreeing he probably could, but since there weren't that many barns needing bullets through them, let's see how well he could do THIS time round with an actual man-sized target. And that maybe keeping his eyes open this time might be to his advantage. Garrison was there as well, trying to keep from laughing at the wrangling back and forth. So it was Casino, Actor and Chief who silently debated, and then they all stood in unison. But before they could make any further move, there was a form rising from a shadowed back corner, and a slow even steady pace to face the blowhard.

"Would you like to be repeating that now, Owen Price?" came in a voice hardly more than a whisper, and still it rang out loud and clear in the dead silence of the room.

The big man gulped, but then threw back his head, "alright, I will. Everyone else may be afraid to speak their minds, but I'm not." And he repeated his words, confirming to one and all his rank stupidity, and added a few others, at which she nodded, nice and easy, and without warning, with no signaling her intentions, she drove her fist into his crotch, then to his jaw, and watched with almost disinterest as he collapsed, stunned, on the floor. She looked around the room, still calm, breathing easy, a slight hint of a smile on her lips.

"Anyone else like to voice a similar view?"

Actor refrained from laughing, but only with great difficulty, at the hasty, almost desperate shaking of heads around the room, as they all stared to where she stood, totally at ease, one heel firmly bearing down on the jewels of the whimpering man she'd just downed. She glanced at their table and gave the tiniest of winks.

"And I'll be just as pleased to hear similar views about Miss Standish being spread about as I'd be to hear them about myself, just so you know. I'll be having a word with those responsible for that talk, so expect it, gentlemen!"

And the faces on some in the room were amused, some were relieved that they'd played no part in this, and some, well, 'scared shitless' was the term Casino used later in describing the scene to his absent team members. Even the face of the Playmaster showed some sign of apprehension, though he thought to himself, {"I don't think this can lead back to me. And anyway, once the other play is completed, she'll have enough problems of her own, she'll forget all about this."}

He thought for a moment of shifting the emphasis to a possible relationship between the two women, but something about the serene look on the redhead's face when she'd issued that warning, told him he'd better leave it be. {"Besides, it might complicate the MAIN performance!"}

He had underestimated her, the willingness of the villagers to talk to her when she asked. And it was to the team she went next, asking a favor where she so rarely did; that last mission had left her without her usual agility for a time, and she needed someone with such skills. And it was in the Common Room a couple of nights later that the contents of that small traveling trunk were made known.

"I only brought back one of the finished ones, less chance of 'im figuring out someone's been at them; looked through them and most seemed to be pretty much the same. Some 'ad clippings, though, so I brought one of those."

Actor skimmed the contents, "it seems he likes to write his own plays, but I don't . . ."

He stopped, and a stark look came over his face as he read the clippings tucked into the last pages. "I need to rephrase that. It seems he writes AND STAGES his own plays, although I do not believe the cast is aware they are acting in his play. This one, for example, the tale of two brothers, close friends until a woman comes between them." He flips to the back pages, "it ends with the woman and one of the men dead, the other man in prison for their murders." He pursed his lips in anger, "the clippings are from six years ago, Hampshire. One of the local men was convicted of the murder of his brother and a local woman."

Garrison frowned, "did he write the play from the newspaper account?" though the look on Actor's face led him to doubt that would be the case.

"No, the date of the newspaper account is later than the date in the journal. It would appear he wrote his 'play' based on people he met while in a village, while . . ." his eyes were dark now, and he was shaking his head in disbelief, "while staging amateur theatricals, as he is doing here. He wrote his play, cast it accordingly, and somehow, put it into production."

He looked at Goniff, and asked, "and they were all like this? How many?" and they were all shaking their heads to hear, "pretty much, all plays, what 'e intended, names of the people; if there weren't any clippings, there were notes as to 'ow the locals reacted to the 'ole thing. Twelve of those things, mates, and," he reached back inside his jacket, "this one, just started. Took a chance, taking that one; I'll 'ave to get these back right quick, afore 'e knows they're gone. But you'll see why." He handed the small journal to Actor, him being their expert on such things.

Actor quickly read the first page, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline, glancing back at the pickpocket who had a very odd look on his face - went on to the notes, the scenario, the finale, the notes about the side drama - the casting. He grabbed a pen and made quick notes of his own.

"Fine, get them back, now. We'll talk when you get back," and Goniff and Chief took off into the darkness.

Actor looked at Garrison, "Craig, I believe this will call for the good whiskey!" Meghada had sat quietly through all of this, wanting to ask about that last journal, but decided she'd wait, let him tell it once; and besides, until Chief and her laddie got back safely, she'd not be able to concentrate as she should anyway.

The men returned, the contents of the newly started journal reviewed, a few curses cast around. Then, the planning, or as Actor insisted on phrasing it, the 'edit and re-write phase' began in earnest. Later, Goniff disappeared for awhile and came back with something in his closed fist. He laid it on the table, "this do the trick, ya think?" and even Actor gave an appreciative whistle at the gleaming object laying there. "I should think so." He picked up the emerald broach, admired the cut and sheen, the finely chased gold setting. Garrison thought seriously about asking just where the pickpocket had come up with this particular trinket, but decided now was not the time.

"Well, how do we get started?" he put the question to Actor, and the smug look on the tall man's face showed that he was looking forward to getting his own production in process.

The rehearsals were finally at an end. The cast was all jittery and nervous and highly-keyed up, but when the curtain was drawn, it all fell into place quite nicely. Oh, there were a few slips and a miscue or two, but nothing unexpected in an amateur production. The applause was wholehearted and vigourous, and the announcement of a party at the pub afterwards to celebrate the first production by the Brandonshire Players Guild went over almost as well. If there was anyone in the audience who was not at the pub, it wasn't apparent. 

The party was in full swing when a disturbance was heard in one corner. Slowly the attention of the partiers shifted to the angry young woman and the small blond man trying to calm her down. Now that the room was focused on them, their words rang out loud and clear.

He coaxed her earnestly, a winsome smile on his face, "now, Meghada, don't make such a fuss. You know I love you!"

She spat her reply at him, "yes, I can tell! According to the letter you wrote to your mother, you LOVE me well enough! Love me for my property! Love me for a steady income! Love me for a soft place to land when the war is over! Love me as someone you might use as a handy alibi when the police come looking after you get into trouble again. Yes, you love me, right enough! Lucky I am that someone at the postal office thought to slip that one back under my door. You love me well enough to steal my grandmother's emerald broach, send it off to someone up in London. What do you call people like him? A fence? Just how much money did you think to get for it? Who were you intending to blame when it came up missing??!"

He cajoled her, "now, it wasn't like that at all, girl. Just saw the setting was loose; thought to get it to a friend of mine to get it fixed. Meant it to be a surprise for you."

"Yes, well and a surprise it was, surely, when the post brought it back because you hadn't put enough stamps on the package! And the note about, 'getting the best price for it,' that was another surprise!" And she slapped him, resoundingly. 

At that, he seemed to snap; he caught her wrist in his hand and jerked it back to the side. No longer the amiable little clown, now all those watching could see was a snarling feral rat.

"That's all rot and you know it; never wrote such a letter, no such note. But even if it WAS true, well, and what did you expect? Bleedin' old maid, tucked up in 'er own little world, little miss priss. What man would take you on for more than just a one night tumble unless 'e was getting something outta it, ei? Like bedding a flounder two days outta the water; ruddy 'ell, the flounder would be a warmer bedmate than you! Lucky I bothered; least you can say you didn't leave this world same way you came into it, and you would've, cept for me, right enough! A few pretty words and shy smiles - you believed em all; all that fancy education, all them fancy books, and no more common sense than a ruddy goose!" 

No one was making a sound, now, jaws dropped, shock everywhere, hard anger showing on many of the faces. Two faces showed something a bit different, satisfaction for the Playmaster; satisfaction and vindication for sly Doby. Even the team was looking appalled at this display. The faces of the two combatants were stark now, the fury in both of them apparent.

Still, no one was prepared when the young woman shrieked, pulled out a knife and stabbed the slender man in the heart. He cried out, clasped his hand to the spot, blood flowing freely now, falling to the floor to lay in a loose sprawl. She froze, looking down at him, suddenly calm. Garrison started to move toward her, as did Dr. Riley.

She smiled just a tiny smile, tilted her head as if listening to far away music, glanced at the others in the room, "he's mine, you know; he'll always be mine now!" and without hesitation, drove the knife into her own heart, falling to the floor, one arm outstretched across his still form. 

The Playmaster could not control himself now; a wide grin cross his face, {"beautiful! Absolutely perfect! This could easily be my masterpiece!"} Ben Miller was watching him closely, from the shadows a few feet away, waiting for the next act. Actor broke the shocked silence with one word.

"Bravi!"

And Garrison started clapping, his team joining him enthusiastically, Dr. Riley and Sheila and a few others in on the whole performance joining him. 

The onlookers were easily thinking they'd gone mad, when, with a rueful laugh and wide grins, the two performers pulled themselves up from the floor, with a willing hand from Chief and Casino. The young woman, the slender Englishman looked at each other, threw back their heads and laughed gleefully, their eyes shining and threw themselves into each others arms.

Their words were easy enough to hear now. "Remind me never to get you really mad, luv!" he told her, and she simply snuggled closer, shaking her head.

"You were marvelous; how everdid you change character so fast?" she replied, with laughter still in her voice. They turned then, accepting the handshakes and hugs and all the rest. 

The playgoers were now totally confused, and some starting to get a little angry at being so fooled, at being subjected to something so upsetting.

Actor took over the explanations, "well, it wasn't their idea, you know. Mr. Bellingham here wrote the play, and tried to make it a very real thing; the same as he did with Miss Standish. He is a most capable Playmaster, certainly; your performance of 'Cinderella' makes that quite clear. But he likes to play games with people, and causes very real harm in doing so. He intended this to be real, causing trouble between them, even included them harming each other or themselves as a result; he wrote that all down in his little 'playbook'. I do not know how he intended the 'play' with Miss Standish to end; what he did manage was ugly enough, certainly. Ben, you have him?" and saw the constable with their Playmaster held firmly by the arm.

"I have him, and my cell will have him soon enough; there's others who will be wanting to have words with him as well. I have that little chest of journals, where he wrote what he'd done in other places. I'll leave the charges to them, but if those little books are anything to go by, there's been people die because of his games! And Tom, I'm deputizing you; you bring along Doby, he had a hand in this as well," and that august individual was also pulled from the room, protesting all the way. Ben hauled the protesting Mr. Bellingham away, which was probably good from the dark growls and rough talk that was growing around the room. 

One tiny elderly lady pulled at Actor's sleeve, "but she stabbed him; we saw it - then herself," bewildered.

And Actor laughed, and reached out his hand for the knife Meghada had tucked into her waistband. "It retracts into itself, see," and he pressed the point into his palm, and her eyes widened to see the blade slide back into the hilt.

"And the blood?"

"Just a bit of coloring in a wax pouch, made to give way under pressure," he reassured her with a kind smile.

She looked at the two still so close to each other, shoulders touching, "they make a fine pair, they do, so well matched. Perhaps when we do Cinderella the next time; young Jim just didn't quite suit the role of Prince Charming as well as I'd have liked; or perhaps Romeo and Juliet. I've always pictured Romeo with dark hair, but somehow . . ." looking at the pickpocket with a great deal of female appreciation.

Actor exploded with laughter. He would tease Goniff about that later, and he knew he could get the others to join in. He wondered just how pink the Englishman could get with a little of that!

No one was expecting the argument, if you wanted to call it that, that came afterwards. A couple of days later, Goniff shook his head in bewildered frustration, "don't know what I did, I swear! Just told 'er next time, SHE'S gotta be the one to say the really bad things; I 'ated that, don't want to do it again! She laughed and said she'd 'ave to think and come up with some choice items, and all I did was tell 'er she'd not 'ave to think so 'ard - after all, I'm short, skinny, a thief, waiting for a maybe-parole, teeth like a ruddy ferret, and all of a sudden she got real quiet, 'er eyes got real strange and she's saying she needs to get some work done. I find myself out on the step before I know it."

Actor looks at him and shakes his head, "Goniff, the things you said about her that night at the pub. These were things you really think are true?" almost provoking a fight at the thought.

"Ruddy 'ell! Acourse not!"

"The things you gave HER to taunt you with, though, they are things you seem to feel ARE true about yourself. Perhaps she has to wonder, after that, if what you were saying of her, you believe those as well." 

And Goniff looked at them all, went totally still. Then he groaned, and threw back his head in disgust, "ruddy 'ell, I really stepped in it this time, didn't I?" and no one could actually argue with him. Still, it would have been an easy thing to fix. He was seriously contrite, and he knew she understood him well enough to know he was prone to saying some pretty stupid things on occasion, his perhaps overly critical view of himself sometimes overriding his ability to think before he spoke. But the war, that ever-so-inconvenient war, interferred, as it did with so many things.

As he headed out the door, the Sergeant Major grabbed him by the shoulder, "not so fast, there. Word just came down; we're on lockdown. The Lieutenant will tell you all about it; on 'is way in right now," and sure enough, Garrison was through the door within five minutes. And there was no way around it; on lockdown, the phones were disconnected, except for the one at the gate, no one in or out. And Goniff stewed and protested and finally realized he was truly stuck. The letter he hurriedly scratched out and tucked into an envelope and handed to the Sergeant Major was the best he could do, along with a fervent plea, "just let 'er know I tried to get over and explain; I know you 'ave to wait til they give the all clear, but then, please?" And the Sergeant Major, who truly did have a soft spot for the lads and for the O'Donnell lass, nodded, and agreed, "just as soon as I can, I promise," and Goniff had to be content with that.

She'd tried to get through on the phone, with no luck. She'd driven to the Mansion, to be told they were on lockdown and no one allowed inside. She was tempted to go in the back way, through the woods, but a fast call to one of her sources told her that the team had indeed been called up on a mission, and had already headed out. She fretted, she called herself a few choice names, she tried to keep herself busy, she worried, and when she got that far, she started all over again. She got no sleep and was wound up past bearing. When the Sergeant Major showed up on her doorstep unexpectedly, he reached out to grab her arms; she'd gone so pale he'd thought she was going to faint.

"Pull yourself together, lass! I'm not bringing you bad news! Tell you one thing, if this is what love does to a body, I'm thinking I'm lucky not to 'ave taken that fall yet! Thought you were supposed to be a Dragon, not a bloody dying swan!" And at those words, at the exasperated look on his face, she had to laugh just a bit.

"Sorry, Sergeant Major, I seem to be a bit overwrought. Come in, have some tea; there are scones."

And he snorted, "well, of course there are. Seems there always are anymore, and if not that, sweet biscuits, not that I've ever seen you more than nibble at one. You can lay off the baking for a bit; will take them a week or more anyway to get this lot behind them. I've a letter for you; right upset 'e was; tried to get over 'ere to make amends about something or other, right when the call came about the lockdown. Seemed right sincere, whatever it was 'e was supposed to 'ave done."

She took the letter, opened it and read it, a tiny smile, just a hint of moisture in her eyes when she finished. And she shook her head, "I've been scolding myself ever since it happened; it was my fault." And somehow she found herself sharing that conversation, "I heard what he said, and what that seemed to imply about what he'd said that night in the pub, and it hurt, oh, Gil, it hurt! And I reacted, not thinking, even though I KNOW it wasn't true, wasn't what he meant. I KNOW how he is, how he still tends to not give himself the credit he should, thinking too little of himself, not seeing him like I see him. And I KNOW he tends to speak without thinking it through," taking another sip of her tea.

Gil Rawlings looked at her and said it again, "if this is what love does to a body . . ." Still, part of his mind drifted off to Miss Rebecka Standish, and wondered if love might not be worth the trials, after all.

After the mission, a spectacularly messy one where their rushed exit from their target was by necessity through the sewer drains, one they'd not been able to clean up from due to the overcrowded conditions at HQ, supposedly, though Garrison thought those there just didn't want to deal with their disgustingly filthy bodies and clothes, nor their frankly appalling stench. Even those doing the debriefing had stayed at the opposite end of the room and gotten the process over with in record time. No hotel would accept them, even for a hour or two, just to get a shower, even with a hefty bribe attached.

As they drove past the village, he ordered Chief to stop at the O'Donnell cottage. He turned around to look at Goniff perched miserably in the back seat along with Casino and Actor, "go on, get it over with."

"Cor, Warden, you can't be serious. I look like I got dragged through a swamp, got blood anywhere I aint got something else, and smell like a cesspit!" The others looked at Garrison like he had gone crazy.

"Craig, you cannot imagine she'll welcome him like this!" Actor protested.

Garrison was adamant, "go on; if you're in for a fight, at least you're dressed for it. If she refuses to let you near her, you both have a good excuse without feelings entering into it, and can try again later once she cools down. Go on! I'll send down fresh clothes." 

She heard the jeep and met him at the gate, her neat and clean and tidy. She looked at him, her eyes widening as she took in the state of his clothes, his besmeared face and hair, her eyes watering with the stench from whatever he'd been dunked in. One hand reached out to touch the backs of her fingers to his cheek, just as she had greeted him on so many occasions, and somehow, they were holding each other tight, as if never to let go, heads nestled together.

Casino looked at the two of them, turned and looked at the others, totally bewildered.

"He's covered in dirt and blood and shit, just like we are, right?" Their joined voices assured him of that.

Casino asked them, just to be sure he wasn't missing something, "he stinks just as bad as we do, right?"

Chief spoke up, "Ohhh, yeah."

Casino shook his head, "I'll never understand those two."

And Garrison chuckled.

She welcomed him in through the gate eagerly, but at her rather firm suggestion, he left his clothes outside by the doorstep, figuring the odds were against anyone walking through that garden gate in the two minutes it took him to strip. On second thought, he picked them up and tossed them as far away from the door as possible. He figured he wouldn't be needing them anytime soon anyway. Maybe if he was lucky, some wild animal would come along and steal them. Or maybe they'd self-destruct; as bad as they smelt, they just might. A shower, though, that he'd need, no doubt about that; no matter, he'd make it a quick but thorough one. The shower, that is. Anything else waiting for him inside, he didn't intend to rush with at all. Seconds after he passed through that door, her now begrimed clothes were bundled and sent flying after his. Luckily the shower was big enough for two. And they took their time.

**

Aftermath - "And remember, I do or say anything stupid like that again, even think about it, you 'ave my permission to give me a good 'ard kick, right then and there!"

"To get your attention, you mean?" she asked innocently, trailing her fingers down the middle of his chest. And at his earnest nod, she gave a sly smile, "perhaps I can come up with something equally apt to 'get your attention'. This, perhaps?"

Later, as he lay gasping for air, he told her, "that'd do the trick, right enough. But a little 'ard to manage in front of the guys or anyone else!" And was most disconcerted, and a little worried by that sly smile melting into a totally wicked grin.

"But it WOULD get your attention??"

And his open mouthed stare gradually changed into a grin of its own, accompanied now by helpless laughter. "Casino would 'ave a ruddy 'eart attack!"

He reached for her, intending to instigate a few more things that would have proved possibly fatal if witnessed by his good friend; they both startled as a voice came from the doorway, "here, I brought your clean clothes and spare boots," and sat them on the dressing table. "And about Casino, it'd be fine. Just tell him the truth."

"Ei, and just what would that be," Goniff asked with more than a bit of trepidation, the green eyed man standing there smiling at them knowingly. While the slender pickpocket showed welcome in his face, skepticism rang loud in his voice; this 'new and more relaxed Craig Garrison' took some getting used to.

Craig shrugged, as he started to rid himself of his own clothes, "you told her to give you a good hard kick, and she obviously took you at your word," casting an appreciative look over the two bared forms in front of him, lingering on the slender blond, "she just misheard you slightly," and the look on the Englishman's face as he glanced down, and then back at Garrison was priceless, and then their shared laughter rang throughout the entire cottage.


End file.
